The Legend of the Dark Knight
by injustice
Summary: An origin story of a very different Bruce Wayne, and a very different Batman. Issues 2 and 3 are finished, and will be a little different in terms of content.


**The Legend of the Dark Knight**

**Issue 01- Welcome to Gotham City**

Disclaimer- The characters in this fanfic were mostly created by DC Comics, and as such, they own the rights. This work contains scenes depicting graphic violence and other purely adult concepts, such as harsh language. This story is intended for adults, and adults only.

"**Welcome to Gotham City"**

On the night my happy, peaceful life ended, I remember it being cloudy. I can remember other things about that night, to be sure, but for some reason, that simple fact is burned into my subconscious memory. Such a simple little thing, clouds are. And, to remember that over all other things seems funny, somehow. To first think of clouds, on a night that saw so much suffering. Clouds, over the smell of the recently fired gun. Over the crack of my father's head as it hit the pavement. Over the screams of my mother before a bullet found her throat, silencing her forevermore. Over the smell of the alley, or the faded marquee of the movie theater. Over the blood. Over the silence. Clouds.

They were the first thing I saw as I stepped from the limo, a young boy of 6. Just happy to spend a few hours with my parents; not having to share them with 200 other guests at the endless fund raisers. People called me blessed. Blessed to have two insanely rich parents who could buy and sell most people a hundred times over. I never cared about the money. Maybe thats why I loved the simpler nights; sitting in the study watching my mother do the daily crossword puzzle, or my father reading some lengthy tome picked from our endless supply of books. That night was supposed to be one of the simpler nights. Just going to see an old movie, in an old movie theater. Simple.

Simple, like the clouds drifting aimlessly across the dark sky, taking their time. The movie theater itself was nothing simple. It was a testament to the architecture of a simpler time (although I was too young to understand any of that). It was a relic, some lost piece of a city's history that people brush under the rug. Which is why the marquee was cracked and dirty. The letters; some missing, others upside down. The ground, littered with used condoms and day old newspapers. Hookers, loitering in the entranceway, keeping out of the wind. Looking just as depressed as where they were standing.

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"Dad?"

"Yes, son?"

"Who are those ladies?" Thomas Wayne stared at his son, and then back at the women in bright neon stockings.

"Oh. Those ladies... they're probably just on their way to a party."

"I'm sure they're going to party, Thomas," said Martha Wayne, looking slightly bemused at the situation.

"Martha!" Thomas briefly pretended to be shocked, but smiled nonetheless. "Bruce. Do you know what this building is?"

"A movie theater?"

"Very good. But that isn't all this building is. It's a piece of history."

"Oh, it's a piece of something all right, Thomas." Martha Wayne stared at the filthy building, and then down to her high heels, where she tried to kick off a condom that had stuck to the sole.

"Anyway," Thomas continued, ignoring his wife's remark, "This theater is where your grandfather took me to my first movie. I can still remember it. Of course, the building has changed a lot since the days when I was a child, but it still has that feeling to it." He took a step back, onto the street, and took a longing look at the facade. He sighed, and then took Bruce's hand, leading him to the ticket window.

"You know, Bruce, this used to be a centerpiece of the city when I was your age. Hundreds of people flocked here every Friday, Saturday and Sunday. It's a real shame that people didn't take good care of it. A building like this... it needs to be nurtured, cared for by people who understand." He took one last look around, his eyes choosing to blot out the two women smoking in the corner, before stepping up to the ticket booth.

"Three tickets for The Legend of Zorro, please." The man behind the dirty glass took a long look at the three odd people before him. They were dressed more for the opera than a shitty movie theater like this one, but 5 bucks is 5 bucks, so he handed them the tickets and went back to his skin mag.

The halls were painted blood red, and your shoes stuck to the floor. The movie posters from years past littered the cracked frames on either side of the main hallway, and Bruce took in every bit. He had never actually been to the movies before; he had only seen a few on the ancient projector that only Alfred knew how to work. Getting Alfred to work it was another story. Whenever Bruce asked, Alfred simply said that the young master should "Read a book." Even when Bruce politely explained that he was only 6, Alfred would stare at him for a moment, before saying that that was "Not a suitable excuse."

Thomas Wayne pulled a few bills from his wallet to pay for the popcorn and sodas, and they entered the cavernous screening room. Bruce stopped at the top of one of the long aisles, staring at the size and scope of the room. Thomas and Martha shared a smile, thinking that he was admiring a piece of Gotham's history. No; Bruce was in fact trying to gather the courage to enter the room that looked a lot like another room- one that Bruce had no intention of ever entering again. He had spent too much time there already, as a the cast on his right arm was a testament to. He took several deep breaths, and followed his parents to some seats in the middle of the auditorium. Bruce tried not to look around too much, and instead focused on the screen, with it's pictures of dancing food items telling viewers to have a "Wonderful time at the movies!!"

Bruce settled into the seat between his mother and father, taking in the warmth of their bodies, which considerably calmed him down. The movie began, and it was of course fantastic, as most movies are to children who are seeing them in this format for the first time. Zorro was a perfectly suitable hero to Bruce, and he loved the way he would cut his mark into the clothing of his enemies. Everything was perfect. Bruce didn't even mind his father interjecting during certain scenes to tell him some meaningless bit of trivia. Everything was perfect. At least, until Zorro found himself in a cave. Bruce froze. His heart sped up, seemingly slamming up against the inside of his ribs. His small hands suddenly gripped the tattered seat arms, his fingers digging into the fabric.

"Please leave. Please leave. Please leave." Bruce repeated this over and over again in his mind, praying for Zorro to leap out into open territory, jump on his great black horse, and ride off to fight another villain. And, at first, it seemed like that would happen. But just then, Zorro turned and found himself face to face with... and Bruce was screaming, tears running down his face. A few people in the front of the theater turned to look, but there was only a handful of moviegoers, and most were used to the strange happenings of Gotham. Just another day in fucked up Gotham City.

Thomas Wayne quickly grabbed Bruce and took him gently to the back of the theater and outside into the lobby area. Martha followed, leaving behind their food and drink, which was quickly taken by a homeless man who had been sprawled out over the seats five rows ahead.

"Bruce, Bruce. It's okay. Everything is going to be fine. Nothing is going to hurt you." His concerned face evened with Bruce's as he knelt down and grasped his son's shoulders. "Bruce. It's just a movie."

Tears still streamed down Bruce's face, although he had stopped screaming. "Bruce? Honey, do you want to leave?" Martha Wayne, concern clearly seen on her face, kissed Bruce on the forehead, seconds before he nodded his answer to her question.

"Okay sweetie, lets go." They each took a hand and led Bruce out into the night, the sounds of traffic quickly enveloping them.

"Dammit," Thomas muttered, "The car service. They won't be here for another hour. I'll have to call." He started toward a phone near the wall of the theater, but it was broken.

"Lets just take a cab, Thomas."

"Ok, Martha." His eyes searched the expanse of traffic. Dozens of people had their arms outstretched for taxis. "Lets try a block over. It might have more open cabs."

The again took Bruce's hands and led him toward the end of the block. "Why don't we just take this alley?"

"I don't know Thomas, I wouldn't feel safe."

"It'll be fine. This neighborhood isn't anywhere as bad as everyone says." Nonetheless, they both gripped Bruce's hands a bit tighter, who by now had stopped crying, although his face was very red. The stepped around some large bags of trash and began walking toward the sounds of traffic on the other side of the alley. Neither of them saw him. Bruce, on the other hand, was a very observant child. He quickly saw the man in the shadows. The man in the trench coat.

The man stepped out from the shadows and stopped in front of the Wayne trio. His hands were stuffed in the pockets of the tan trench coat. Thomas stopped dead in his tracks. He stared at the man, taking in his striking green eyes, his scared expression. The man was clearly sweating. Martha gripped her son's hand tighter.

"What is it that you want, son?," Thomas asked. The man did not answer. He simply stared at the three Wayne's.

"If it's money you want, here." Thomas pulled his wallet out and tossed it at the man's feet. The man in the trench coat made no move to get the wallet. He just stared.

"Honey, give the man your necklace." Martha put her hand to her throat and unclasped the pearl necklace, taking it off and softly tossing it next to the wallet. The man made no move for either. He seemed locked in place; frozen in time.

Thomas, ever the doctor, put his hand out. "Do you need some help, son?"

It was at this movement that the man's hand came out from his pocket, taking a small snub-nosed revolver out along with it. He promptly shot Thomas Wayne in the head, just over the right eye. Thomas froze, as if part of a photo, before collapsing to the ground, blood slowly seeping out of the hole in the back of his head. Martha screamed, a high pitched scream that Bruce would never forget. The man in the trench coat fired the revolver again, cutting through her throat, sending a spray of blood onto Bruce's face as she gracefully fell to the ground.

Bruce stood just as frozen as the man in the trench coat had been moments earlier. Those striking green eyes stared back into Bruce's blue ones.

"Sorry." The man then turned and walked off into the night, leaving Bruce standing over the dead bodies of his parents. Bruce dropped, slowly, and reached out and touched the side of his father's face. It was still warm, as was the blood he was kneeling in. He wasn't crying. Perhaps it was because he was all cried out. Maybe it was because he was in shock. Bruce would later turn the events of that night in his head over and over, but he could never quite come to the decision as to why he didn't cry.

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The police were on the scene in minutes. A big man with a large mustache and hairy arms pulled Bruce away from his parents, and wrapped him in a large blanket, as if Bruce was cold. He wasn't, so this action seemed bizarre to him.

"What do we have, Anderson?" Another large man (although they all seemed large, this one was particularly big), stepped around the bodies and was talking to a rather heavy man dressed in police blues.

"Its the Wayne's. Thomas, one shot to the forehead. Martha, one to the throat. She probably bled out. I wouldn't be surprised if he died instantly."

"Robbery?" The large man asked.

"That's the thing. His wallet is on the ground in front of them. So is her necklace. Between the two, thats gotta be 50 grand, not to mention credit cards and all that shit."

"What's the kid say?"

"You fucking kidding me, boss? I ain't talked to the kid. After seeing this shit go down, I'd be surprised if the kid ever talked again."

"Yeah, you're right. Still, we gotta talk to him after ESU checks him out. Maybe we can get him together with a sketch artist, get lucky."

"Sure boss."

Bruce watched this from his seat in the back of the ambulance. He didn't really understand what they were talking about. He didn't really care. He knew they had to be dead. They had to be gone. Bruce stared at his shoes, trying to escape everything; the sirens, the chatter, the people screaming at the barricades.

A hand reached out and touched his shoulder, and Bruce looked up from his shoes. A man stood there, with slightly graying hair and a heartbroken look on his face. "Master Wayne? Are you alright? Are you hurt?"

Alfred Pennyworth sat down next to Bruce, and hugged him deeply. And for the first time since his parents death, Bruce Wayne cried. So did Alfred, for that matter.

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**21 Years Later...**

Bruce Wayne sat at the desk, staring at the black touch phone in front of him, as if he was begging with his eyes for it not to ring. As if by some sort of magic, his prayers were not answered. The shrill sound broke the silence of the room, joining the cacophony of sounds coming from the rainstorm outside. Bruce waited a few rings, and finally picked up.

"This is Detective Bruce Wayne, Gotham Central. What can I do for you today?"

**To be continued...**

**Upcoming Issues...**

**Issue 02-04: Days and Knights**

**Issue 05-06: The White Room**

**And hopefully many more...**


End file.
